Yehuda is mine. Tears
piggyback words like a small girl
carried uphill by her father.
In Yemen, Moshe
Yehuda is dying. Leaving me
the way they all do, with
the same excuse:
I thought it was love
but it was cancer
Cancer the benign flower
I pinned to your lapel. Cancer
the lily corsage, withered
on my wrist.
Yehuda, be honest.
If I come to Jerusalem,
will you still take me
to the father-daughter
dance?